


World Turning

by nellvonb



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Book Spoilers, Eventual Romance, F/M, semi-crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellvonb/pseuds/nellvonb
Summary: Part of a series of planned fics, taking place after Shadow of Night and before the events of A Discovery of Witches. Follows Gallowglass de Clermont and the years he spent protecting Diana. *Contains book spoilers*





	World Turning

**_Maybe I'm wrong but who's to say what's right_ **

**_I need somebody to help me through the night_ **

 

The Hudsons’ scraggly ginger cat greeted me as I walked up the short concrete path to my house. Strange how I saw my neighbor’s cat far more often than my neighbors; as much as they'd spent on their Beacon Hill house, you’d think they would want to actually spend some time in it. The cat meowed and I bent to give him a little scratch on the cheek before letting myself into my house.

My footsteps fell heavily on the wooden floors, echoing into the empty hallway. I shrugged out of my suede jacket, tossed it over the banister, and made my way through the seldom-used kitchen to the den at the back of the house. Night had long settled over Boston. I switched on the TV which illuminated the room in a blue glow; the news would come up, that’s the only channel it was ever set to. As the image cleared, I tossed three logs, a few pieces of crumbled newspaper, and a match into the fireplace. It was mid-August, so there was no real need for a fire (in fact there never was a need, because I felt no discomfort from neither heat nor cold), but my father always said that watching a fire in the evening was among the most human things to do.

Once the fire began to breathe on its own, I settle myself down on the sofa and propped my feet up on the pine coffee table. On the TV, the newscasters were reviewing the story from yesterday, about thousands of Northern Irish women – of both Catholic and Protestant faith – holding a demonstration for world peace. Immediately following that story was an update on the shooting at a Wichita hotel. The news cycle only simply duplicated the rhythm of life: a glimmer of hope, followed by a shadow.

I reached for the pen and pad of lined paper from the coffee table. Balancing my pad on my thigh and I lounged back into the deep sofa, I held the pen poised over the paper.

 _Your briefs have always been few and far between_.            

But what do I write? What would he want to know?

My eyes settled on the fireplace as I drew forth the events from the day.

 

Like every day, I’d gone to Cambridge. The town, of course, was much changed since I’d first lived here on the eve of the Revolution. Although Philippe had initially ordered me to leave the colonies, he’d changed his mind when he realized the nature of the war that was breaking out. He’d sent Matthew as well, to attend to Lafayette, but he’d warned me to stay far north, not wanting me to cross paths with Matthew. What exactly Philippe did not trust me with, I could not be sure.

The Bishop-Proctor home was on a residential street adjacent to a shopping street. So normally I parked nearby, fed the meter, and spent early mornings and afternoons strolling around, reading the newspaper at a small cafe, or pretending to listen a football game on the radio at an even smaller bar. From anywhere on that street, I could listen for a scrap of conversation about or between Rebecca Bishop and Stephen Proctor.

Two days ago, while I was sitting by the window at the cafe, I learned from a gossiping neighbor that Dr. Bishop had gone into labor and was at the hospital with her husband. “ _What bad luck_!” she’d exclaimed. I frowned, but the date printed under the headline of my morning newspaper explained the woman’s reaction. Friday the thirteenth. Superstitions die hard; even vampires are easier to kill.

Today had been especially warm; children (making the most of their last couple of weeks of Summer vacation) had been running around in swimsuits and playing with garden hoses and plastic baby pools to keep cool.  I heard the voices of the new parents themselves, accompanied by the soft, almost breathless cries of a newborn. My throat suddenly felt heavy.

“ _I’ll be right back, my dear. I’m going to run out for coffee filters and butter. Do you need anything else_?” Dr. Proctor’s voice was warm and crooning. I envisioned him beaming a satisfied smile as he looked over his wife and child.

“ _Some dried cranberries?_ ” Rebecca’s voice was different from what I remembered of Diana’s voice; more like a wind-chime than a song.

“ _Your craving is my command_.”

Stephen’s voice disappeared while Rebecca’s went on, crooning and whispering oaths of love to her child. Then began humming a song which I immediately recognized as a Fleetwood Mac number.

_All your life you've never seen_

_A woman taken by the wind_

_Would you stay if she promised you heaven?_

_Will you ever win?_

That record seemed to have a magic all its own; I'd heard it playing from within the Bishop-Proctor house countless times since it came out last year.

In all likelihood, Stephen was headed to small convenience store on the other side of the street, several doors down. I wouldn’t be able to see him from the cafe window, but I didn’t need to. I picked up on John Glassman’s voice.

“ _So, Stephen?_ ”

“ _A healthy baby girl_ ,” Stephen replied. “ _We’ve named her Diana_.”

“W _ell done, wonderful name!_ ” There a was a sound as though John had clapped Stephen on the arm. “ _If she looks anything like her mother, you’ll be fightin’ the boys off with a stick!_ ”

I chuckled. John had a way of making his customers uncomfortable with his brand of flattery.

“ _Yes, well, I must be getting back to my lovely wife_.”

“ _Yes, yes, yes, of course – hey, new daddy, you’re money is no good here! This is on me_.”

“ _No, John, I-_ ”

“ _I insist! Go on, go on!_ ”

“ _Thank you, John, I appreciate it_.” A bell chimed, signaling Stephen’s exit from the store. He returned home, and I spent the rest of the morning listening to their exchanges (“ _Sarah and Em want to come visit_ ,” “ _If you ask me, she has my mother’s nose. How does a nose skip a generation?_ ” “ _Can I get you anything, dear?_ ”) and Diana’s intermittent crying.

By noon, I decided to head back to Boston. I had the information I need, and I knew that my mission had officially begun. Protect Diana Bishop, but remain unknown to her and her family.

I found myself at an Irish pub at the center of Boston shortly after sunset. The pub owners might be several generations removed from the Emerald Isle, but it was undoubtedly the best place to get a Guinness. Carefully perched on one of the rickety bar-stools, I took a long pull from my beer when a woman – more importantly, a vampire – walked up and saddled a stool to my left, leaving one in between us.  She was wearing mustard yellow, flared corduroy pants, a loose-fitting white t-shirt, and several green and yellow amber bracelets. The bright colors flattered her bronze skin which hinted at the southern Mediterranean, and black hair hung down her back in tight ringlets. She ordered a whiskey (“Neat. Tullamore Dew, if you have it.”) and once it was delivered, she addressed me.

“I’d say that you’re a difficult man to find, de Clermont, but that would be a lie. You’re not very good at blending, are you?”

I felt my eyebrows pull together reflexively. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The woman shook her head lightly. “No, we haven’t. But I’m... an old friend.” She took a sip of her whiskey, and turned to face me. Freckles danced across the bridge of her too-pointed nose. Her deep-brown eyes glinted with ancient wisdom.

“You knew Philippe,” I said. One corner of her mouth tilted into a smile.

“Yes, I did. I knew him even when he was just a boy – and by then I’d lived a few lifetimes already.” She was being uncharacteristically forward about her age for a vampire; for some reason, she wants me to know how old she was.

“Well, you know my name. Might I have yours?” I tried to play it flirtatiously, for the sake of any warmbloods who might be listening in, but I felt more irritated than amorous at the moment; I was naturally cautious of any strangers who named themselves “friend.”

She took another sip of her whiskey and shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me. But, if you need a name, you can call me…” – she tapped her bottom lip with one finger – “Molly?” She shrugged, holding her whiskey aloft in one hand and a smile still tugging at her lips. Strangely, I didn’t get the feeling that there was any malice in either her words or expression, so I decided not to press further for her identity.

“So, Molly, is there something that I can help you with? Looking to reminisce with someone about my grandfather?”

“No, I remember him well enough on my own,” she said, before quickly adding, “Oh-! It’s not anything like- well, I really meant it when I said that I’m an old _friend_. Philippe and I were never, ah, involved.” Her nails thrummed against the side of her glass and she cast her eyes down as though interested in my jeans. “Truthfully, I wanted to meet you. We have a… common interest.” She returned her eyes to mine. “Why are you watching the witch couple?”

I know I shouldn’t have been surprised; every vampire fancies themselves some sort of reconnaissance master. Of course, a vampire who’d lived far longer than even Philippe could be observant enough to see what I was doing – if they took the time to look. Perhaps what struck me most what the tone of her voice; she didn’t seem concerned or angry or overly nosy. She sounded genuinely curious.

“I have my reasons. But I’m don’t mean them any harm.”

“I know,” she nodded. “It’s just not the behavior I’d expect from your family.” A pause fell in, perhaps to see if I would take offense.  When I took another pull of my beer rather than destroying the bar in a rage, she continued. “Like I said, we have a common interest. I also look after witches.”

 

One of the logs in the fireplace cracked, sending orange spark up the chimney. The news program had ended. I tapped the pen on the pad a few times before finally settling on what to write.

_Your daughter has arrived. I’ve also met an old friend of yours._

_-Eric_

I tore the sheet from the pad, stood, and walked over to the fireplace. After folding the paper in half, I let it fall into the fire. Orange flames licked long the edges of the paper, quickly reducing it to a thin layer of black ash.

Whether or not I would see that woman again – _Molly_ , I suppose – I couldn’t be sure. She didn’t seem affronted by the fact that I was watching Rebecca, Stephen, and Diana, so I doubted she would attempt to intervene. Then maybe I wouldn’t see her again. She was curious about a de Clermont protecting witches – or this one witch family – and that curiosity had been sated; she knew I wouldn’t yield my reasons for doing so, but she also knew I wouldn’t harm them. Surely, she’d leave town and continue on her way, no doubt treading over roads she’d taken thousands of times before.

And perhaps that was all for the best. I had mission, and I didn’t need any distractions.

**Author's Note:**

> My original character, "Molly," is based on Madeline Miller's Circe. The idea to add a figure from Greek mythology stems from a line in Time's Convert, referring to gods and goddesses of myth as "old friends" of Philippe's. As a goddess of magic, I thought it would be interesting if Circe (here a vampire) acted as a guardian to witches (similar to what Gallowglass is now doing for Diana). The name she gives is a play on "moly," a magical herb used in Circe's potions and spells.


End file.
